An old poem I wrote, for my beautiful desert

I've lived in one place my whole life--a desert valley in Arizona.  Being a native is somewhat unusual, especially in this region.  I'm used to people denigrating the desert as ugly and harsh. People move here for one reason or another and complain, loudly and frequently...  About the heat of course, and things like "there are no seasons" or "there are no trees".  Neither of which are true, of course. They just don't take the time to see.  Which I can understand, if you're used to soft greenery... and if you're homesick.  The desert accentuates homesickness even when you're not sure what you're homesick for, and not many are comfortable with that.

I relate to my home.  I relate to having a disposition which is blunt and sometimes aloof... with a prickly history, which takes time to understand.  Always longing for something, always leaning towards extremes.  My husband, who was also born here, showed me the art of paying attention to the subtleties of the desert.  When the ocotillo blooms, when the toads emerge, how you can tell the season by the scent of the night.  It's not a coincidence that this was also when I learned more about myself than I ever have.  

Natural Psychology

Twilight, and the orphan desert
is thick with remembrance.
The secret wail is born in grey spaces--
the growing shade beneath stunted trees,
the desperate angle of a canyon wall,
All aching for what once formed it.
In the eons behind our eyes,
We never forget our ocean mother.

Rebel child, resentfully creates
things with armor and spines,
things that thirst but survive.
Even the wise were once abandoned ones,
left to elemental weathering.
As each weary stone rests between incarnations,
the night creatures mourn...
"We can do this alone, we can do this alone."

The monsoon rages at the realization--
the most defiant art is still imitation.
Valleys like immense dry seashells will sing
for a searing, sonorous wind,
while serpents contemplate old reflections.
Among venom, thorns, tears and bitter blood,
A pilgrim on his knees prophesies:
We may embody Her graceful evolution.

The rain carries with it such divine stillness.

Sunrise, and on a current of longing,
Two hawks fly swiftly towards the always-sun.